Author: Talia Noa

This morning, I tried to carry on as if I hadn’t just had surgery. I wanted to feel normal, productive, in control. But by the afternoon, my body had made the decision for me — I was unwell, and I had no choice but to rest.

And in that stillness, something beautiful happened.

Instead of numbing myself with scrolling or mindless background noise, I chose to rest intentionally. A dear sister on another social media platform recently had shared a link to a YouTube series that’s a panel hosted by Niamh B. Roberts, featuring four niqabi women — and I found myself drawn in. Each woman brought her own story, her own struggle, her own triumph.

But it was Hanaan Menk, daughter of Mufti Menk, who truly spoke to my heart.

I’d never heard her speak before. I didn’t expect much. But what I found was a woman of insight, compassion, and striking balance. She understood both the world of born Muslims and the wounds and wonder that reverts carry. Her words weren’t just informed — they were lived. And they reached somewhere deep inside me.

She made me want to know my deen again.

Not just to practice it. Not to perform it. But to be curious again — to search, to ask, to understand with sincerity.

They spoke about hijab — the layers, the resistance, the pressure, the journey. Some spoke of wearing it off and on like a switch, others of years of slow transformation. All of them are niqabis now. But none pretended the road was easy or without detours.

Hanaan, who has worn hijab from a young age, didn’t preach. She empathised. She understood why others struggle. She honoured that struggle. And somehow, that made her words all the more powerful.

As I lay there, healing from surgery, I realised I’m also healing from distance — distance from my own faith. I’ve been pulled in too many directions: social media noise, distractions, the silent pressure to be something. But today, in quiet rest, Allah (SWT) reminded me that the only relationship I truly need right now… is the one with Him.

This session pulled me back. Back to the why. Back to the heart. Back to the longing.

And maybe that’s what sincerity looks like. Not perfection. But returning, again and again, to Allah — with honesty, with humility, with curiosity.

So I think it’s time for me to leave the noise behind for a while. To write. To reflect. To sit with my faith — not as someone who’s lost it, but as someone who’s ready to rediscover it.

And to Hanaan Menk — thank you. You reminded me what it feels like to want to know Allah again.

I’m not saying your prayers don’t matter. I’m not saying your rituals don’t matter. What I am saying is: what’s the point of doing all of it — the salah, the fasting, the modest dress — if Allah isn’t truly in your heart?

Because the most important thing in our relationship with Him… is sincerity.

So what’s ikhlas?

Ikhlāṣ (إخلاص) in Arabic means sincerity or purity — especially in the context of one’s intention and worship.

In Islam, Ikhlāṣ is about doing something solely for the sake of Allah, without seeking praise, recognition, or reward from anyone else. It’s the foundation of true faith — where your heart, words, and actions are aligned in devotion to Him alone.

The Prophet Muhammad ﷺ said:

“Actions are judged by intentions.”

— Bukhari & Muslim

So even a small act — a kind word, a simple dua, a silent tear — if done with sincere intention for Allah, carries immense weight.

Ikhlāṣ is the hidden engine behind everything that truly lasts in the sight of Allah. Without it, even outwardly good deeds lose their essence.

Today many reverts often come into Islam with a deep desire to get everything right. To be seen as “good Muslims.” But underneath that is something quieter — the feeling of being less than. Like an imposter. Like you don’t quite belong unless you tick every box.

And sadly, that feeling is often fed — not just from within, but from outside too. The haram police. The endless critiques. The cold, public corrections. The social media posts that echo a kind of rigid perfectionism that leaves no room for real human struggle.

But Islam was never meant to be about performance. You can have the hijab, the abaya, the perfectly posed prayer mat, the gold calligraphy on your walls — but what do those mean if the Qur’an hasn’t reached your heart? If you’re not embodying the words you’re displaying?

The Qur’an isn’t a motivational quote you can just clip and move on from. It’s not something you can condense into bite-sized takeaways. It’s an ocean — deep, vast, and layered. And you’ll only begin to swim in it when you approach it with sincerity.

Sincerity is the foundation. Without it, nothing we build will last. With it, everything we build — even imperfectly — becomes something beautiful.

So if you’re struggling, start there. Not with perfection. Not with pleasing others. But with a heart that longs to know Allah, to love Him, to be real with Him.

That’s the most powerful place to begin.

Oh, did I just have my faith shaked.

Not in a cute, spiritual-growth, sit-cross-legged-and-breathe-through-it kind of way.

No, I mean shattered. Like a bottle hitting concrete. Like a soul being violated.

This past week? I got stalked. Harassed. Lied about. Twisted.

By a man from Pakistan who appointed himself the gatekeeper of all things true and Islamic.

Not because I was immodest. Not because I showed skin. Not because I defied some “proper Muslim woman” aesthetic.

It was because I didn’t agree with him.

Because I questioned the narrative he was trying to shove down everyone’s throat.

And for that—he came for me.

He accused me of things I never even said.

He twisted my words. Projected his own agenda. Made wild assumptions, drew his own conclusions, and then went on a full-blown obsession-fueled smear campaign. Stalking. Spying. Reposting. Mocking. Threatening. Flooding. Obsessing.

And the part that shook me?

It wasn’t just his madness—it was that he claimed Islam while doing it.

Because I know this religion. I chose this religion.

I submitted to this path believing it was the way of peace.

And this man? He violated every principle it’s built on.

“O you who have believed, avoid much [negative] assumption. Indeed, some assumption is sin. And do not spy or backbite each other.”

— Surah Al-Hujurat (49:12)

He did all of it.

He assumed.

He slandered.

He spied.

He stalked.

He backbit.

And all while claiming the deen.

This wasn’t just an interpersonal issue—it was spiritual betrayal.

Because Islam doesn’t just put rules on women.

Men are equally bound.

Bound not to accuse.

Bound not to follow someone around like a shadow with a knife.

Bound to lower their gaze, control their tongues, check their egos, and act with decency.

“And speak to people good [words]…”

— Surah Al-Baqarah (2:83)

He didn’t.

Not once.

And if that wasn’t enough—he claimed righteousness while violating every line of it.

That’s why my faith got shaken.

Because I expected it from the Islamophobes.

I expected it from the trolls.

I expected it from people who don’t know better.

But from someone who says “La ilaha illAllah”?

From someone who quotes Quran in between abuse?

That’s spiritual violence. And it makes you question everything.

It made me ask:

Who really gets to call themselves Muslim?

Is it the person dressed right, speaking right, quoting hadith like bullets—while their heart is full of filth?

Or is it the one who struggles privately, but never harms a soul?

Because honestly—I don’t care how someone dresses, or how many raka’ah they pray. If their tongue is a sword and their ego is a throne, then that ain’t Islam. That’s performance.

“Verily, the most beloved of you to Allah are those with the best character.”

— Prophet Muhammad ﷺ, reported in Bukhari and Muslim

Character. Akhlaq.

Not costume. Not clout. Not control.

So yeah—my faith got hit.

Not because of doubt in God, but because of disgust in what some people do in His name.

And it made me come back to this:

“Verily, Allah does not look at your appearance or your wealth, but He looks at your hearts and your deeds.”

— Sahih Muslim, 2564

So no—I don’t need to dress a certain way to be Muslim.

I don’t need to look the part for you.

I don’t need to shrink my spirit to fit your comfort.

My faith isn’t on trial because you couldn’t control your ego.

I’m Muslim.

Not because you allow it.

But because I believe—in God. In truth. In intention. In heart.

And if intention is what matters most, then Allah sees me.

Not the clothes.

Not the profile pic.

Not the narrative you built to destroy me.

But me.

And that? That’s enough.

And if you’re reading this—know this:

I don’t forgive you.

Not for twisting my words.

Not for stalking me.

Not for slandering my name and dragging my faith through the dirt.

Not for making me question the very thing I turned to for peace.

You want to talk about Islam?

Then you should know:

“Whoever causes his brother to despair of the mercy of Allah has committed a grave sin.”

— (paraphrased from multiple hadith and tafsir sources on despair and spiritual harm)

You made me question Islam through your actions.

You pushed me into a dark place while claiming the light.

And for that? You’ll answer to the One you used as a weapon.

Because if I ever stand on the Day of Judgment and say,

“Ya Allah, he made me doubt You,”

then it won’t be me you need to worry about—it’ll be Him.

So unless you go seeking His forgiveness?

Unless you make tawbah for what you did with your tongue, your lies, your ego?

The hellfire you tried to throw me into might just be waiting for you instead.

This morning started with something disturbing.

A brother online—someone I don’t know, someone who doesn’t know me—made false accusations about me. Then, instead of moving on with his life, he stalked me. He created multiple fake accounts. He tried to slander me, obsessively. All under the illusion that this is somehow defending some invisible honour to a community he isn’t actively part of.

And I don’t even want to get into the details, because it’s not about him. It’s about what this kind of behaviour reflects.

Because this is not just an isolated incident. It’s part of a much wider pattern that many of us—especially reverts—see far too often in this Ummah.

There’s a sickness spreading in some corners of our community. A kind of spiritual elitism that turns Muslims into accusers, stalkers, self-appointed judges of someone else’s sincerity and struggle.

What happened today is just a reflection of how twisted some of this has become. It’s not nasiha. It’s not care. It’s not Islam.

It’s ego.

And it’s hurting people.

Especially reverts.

We come into Islam with sincerity, with hope, with trembling hearts and lives turned upside down. We didn’t inherit this. We chose it. And in choosing Islam, we gave up everything.

Everything.

The way we speak.
The way we dress.
Our friends.
Our family.
Our holidays.
Our habits.
Sometimes even our jobs, our culture, our identity.
We gave it all up to walk towards Allah.

And in return, we thought we were entering a family. A community. A sisterhood. A brotherhood. An Ummah.

But what many of us found was a wall. Cold stares. Unsolicited lectures. Constant judgement. And silence where there should have been softness.

We gave up so much—but somehow, it’s never enough for some people.

If you falter, even on one thing, it becomes a target.
If you wear a filter on Instagram—judged.
If you wear makeup—judged.
If you laugh too loud, speak too gently, show too much mercy—judged.

I know sisters who wear a full face of makeup online—not because they’re showing off, but because that’s how they survive. Some of them are makeup artists—it’s their livelihood. Some are just trying to feel human again. Some are still healing from a life before Islam, trying to find beauty in themselves after years of being torn down.

Who are we to decide where someone’s spiritual journey should be?

And I hate that word sometimes—journey. But that’s what it is, especially for reverts. We’re not handed Islam. We have to unlearn everything and rebuild from the ground up. Slowly. Painfully. Brick by brick.

Yasmin Mogahed once said something that stuck with me deeply. She said when we come at children shouting “haram, haram, haram,” they don’t grow into stronger believers—they grow into scared, resentful ones. The same applies to adults. The same applies to reverts. You shout haram enough times and you don’t get taqwa—you get trauma.

Because here’s the truth no one wants to admit:
The way you correct someone matters just as much as the correction itself.

Guidance isn’t meant to crush.
It’s meant to invite.

There’s a saying my grandmother used to share with me:
“You grow more flowers with rain than with thunder.”
And she was right.

Islam is like a garden. But some of us are flooding the soil with our anger, our pride, our assumptions—and wondering why nothing is growing.

We need to tread carefully with each other.
Because you don’t know what someone has already lost to be here.
You don’t know the scars they’re carrying just to show up as a Muslim each day.
And when you choose judgement over compassion, you’re not reflecting Islam.
You’re reflecting your own spiritual illness.

We need less thunder.
Less spiritual superiority.
Less obsession with haram-policing.
Less moral gatekeeping.

And we need more rain.

Rain that nourishes.
Rain that softens.
Rain that helps people grow.
Rain that makes space for imperfection.
Rain that smells like mercy.
Rain that looks like the Prophet ﷺ.

Because if your version of Islam doesn’t look like him,
then who are you really following?

⸻

A fictional retelling of how they might have met according to snippets and stories spoken over generations.

Maryam was a young woman when the British supply trucks first rolled past the dusty roads near Rasht. She lived with her family not far from the coast, in a modest brick house that filled with the smell of rice and bay leaves every evening. Her father ran a teahouse that served traders, dockworkers, and the occasional soldier posted near Bandar-e Anzali. Maryam helped —carrying tea trays, wiping tables, keeping her eyes low when unfamiliar men came through the doors.

Robert was from South Wales, a corporal with the British forces stationed in Iran as part of the Allied supply effort during WWII. His unit had been assigned to Bandar-e Anzali, a port city on the Caspian Sea that connected the southern railway lines to Soviet shipping routes. Like many soldiers, he was far from home and looking for a sense of normality among the chaos.

One afternoon, on a rest day, he took a trip inland to Rasht with a fellow soldier. They found Maryam’s family teahouse by chance. The room was filled with warm light and quiet conversation. He was struck by her calm, the way she worked silently, efficiently, with a grace that wasn’t performative.

Over the next few weeks, Robert returned to Rasht more and more often. He started to pick up words in Persian, just enough to order tea and thank her father. Maryam, too, had begun to understand some English—basic words, the names of places she’d never seen. They spoke carefully, slowly, piecing together a language between them.

Eventually, he asked to speak with her father. He expressed a wish to marry her. The answer was a firm no. She was too young. Too local. And he was a foreign soldier in a temporary war.

Robert respected the decision, but he kept visiting the city, and Maryam kept serving tea. They never spoke openly of what came next, but something unspoken passed between them—an understanding, a hope.

When the war ended and Robert prepared to return to Britain, Maryam made her decision. She couldn’t go with his permission, so she went without it.

She followed him. Quietly, determinedly. And when she reached the UK, the two were married. She took her place beside him not only as his wife now named Mary but as a bridge between two very different worlds.

For My ancestral Grandmother

I never saw her city,

never breathed its salt-thick air

or saw the lilies float across the Anzali Lagoon.

But I know her —

in the way I stand when no one speaks for me,

in the tea I brew when I need to remember,

in the silence I wear like armor.

They say I look like him —

my freckles, my flame-red hair,

but I am hers.

Her grit.

Her leaving.

Her sea.

All of it lives quietly

in me.

I haven’t yet performed Hajj or Umrah, but the idea of it holds a sacred place in my heart. As I prepare mentally and spiritually, there is one part of the pilgrimage I find especially difficult to understand—the requirement to remove my niqab during ihram, that state of ritual purity and consecration before entering the sacred rites.

For a long time, I struggled with this concept. The niqab is not just a piece of cloth to me—it is a shield, a source of protection and dignity. It guards my privacy and expresses my devotion. The thought of unveiling, even in Allah’s presence, unsettled me deeply. It felt like exposing my vulnerability in a way I wasn’t sure I could bear.

As a Muslim still relatively new to this path, over five years since I reverted , I’ve faced questions and doubts—not just from myself, but from others. People who seem to know “better,” who offer judgmental advice instead of gentle guidance. Their words often feel harsh and off-putting, as if the compassion that should accompany faith has been cast aside. Instead of support, I’ve encountered opposition and misunderstanding—sometimes even from within my own community.

It’s hard not to feel isolated when I ask these honest questions. When I admit I’m struggling, I’m met with impatience or criticism, rather than empathy. It makes the journey feel heavier, more confusing. But even amid that struggle, I keep seeking understanding.

And slowly, I’ve begun to grasp the wisdom behind this requirement. When a pilgrim enters ihram, they enter a state of complete humility and submission. Removing the niqab is part of shedding all barriers—external and internal—that separate us from pure connection with Allah. It is an act of surrender, showing that before the Creator, nothing is hidden, and nothing stands between us except sincere devotion.

This unveiling is not about exposure or weakness, but about trust—trusting that in Allah’s presence, I am safe, honored, and loved without the need for any veil. It is the ultimate protection, the highest form of dignity, to be seen fully and accepted completely by the One who knows all.

I understand now that the ihram state, with its simple clothing and uncovered face, strips away all worldly distinctions—wealth, status, even identity—and brings every soul to the same level of pure submission. It is a powerful reminder that true beauty and protection come not from what covers us, but from the surrender of our hearts to Allah.

Though I have not yet made this journey, this understanding brings me peace. It reassures me that when the time comes, I will step into ihram ready not just to remove my niqab, but to stand humbly, vulnerably, and fully present before my Lord. And in that moment of unveiling, I will find a new kind of strength—one born from trust, surrender, and the purest form of spiritual protection.

Until then, I hold onto my intention, despite the doubts and the judgments, trusting that Allah’s mercy and guidance will carry me through.

Today I took the first step into yet another round of treatment and surgery.

This time, I carried something I didn’t quite have before: Tawakkul — trust in Allah, trust in His plan. Not the kind of trust that waits for understanding, but the kind that surrenders without needing to know why.

This came at a time I didn’t want it to. Life had just begun to feel steady again — something I could finally build from. Maybe this too is something I can build from. But it’s teaching me something else. Before, I would try to read into it, to decode the lesson, to search for meaning in the pain. But now, I realise — you can’t always do that. Sometimes, the only thing you can do is trust. Not in the outcome. Just in Allah. As a whole in good and bad times in complete healing and not quite there healing. Today I trust that whatever this is, wherever it leads, it is already the best.

This morning I was anxious — truly anxious — before leaving, and even more so during the procedure. I found myself silently calling out: Ya Allah, Ya Allah… A call for ease. For it to pass. For the pain to be bearable.

And now I’m home. I changed, got into bed, and slept deeply for four hours. I tried to eat, just a few spoonfuls of soup, then took my medication again — antibiotics, painkillers — because I’m at high risk of sepsis. Higher than before. The fatality rate is 50/50. That’s not a figure that sits lightly. But even so — this pain too has a purpose, even if I don’t yet know what it is.

So tonight, as the children settle and I retreat from the noise of the world, I’ve chosen to sit in silence. No scrolling. No conversations. Just me and the Qur’an — the company of Allah’s words. What better comfort is there when you’re alone in pain, than the voice of the One who never leaves you?